


May the Road Rise Up to Meet You

by Arukou



Series: Tumblr Archive [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Iron Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Implied Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, M/M, Post-CAWS, Pre-Slash, Round 11, Steve Rogers' Great American Road Trip, Tumblr: 890fifth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 03:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5274479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arukou/pseuds/Arukou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve's been avoiding his team, so Natasha sends Tony out to bring him back, whether Steve wants to go or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	May the Road Rise Up to Meet You

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to [tumblr](http://arukou-arukou.tumblr.com/post/113675334426/may-the-road-rise-up-to-meet-you-pt-1) in three parts.

1.

“Why North Dakota?”

Beneath the air of apathy that has settled on his shoulders, Steve feels the faintest twinge of anger. “What the hell are you doing here, Stark?”

“Oh, you know. I hear there’s a huge oil boom. More jobs than houses. All the good stuff. Plus, I really liked _Fargo_.”

Steve looks at Tony sidelong and then tosses back his whiskey. It tastes like shit, but he’s far past caring. The empty glass winks in the low light, refracting an eight-legged spoke onto the dark wood of the counter top. If the bartender’s noticed that there are now two super heroes drinking her booze, she’s doing a good job of containing her excitement. Instead, she gives Tony a once over, and says, “What’ll it be, mister?”

“Whatever he’s having. And top his off.”

She nods, fetches a bottle, and pours out two fingers of whiskey for each of them. She doesn’t offer ice and Tony doesn’t ask for it.

“Seriously,” Steve says, head hanging lower. “What are you doing here?”

“Natasha messaged me. Said you dumped Wilson in Wisconsin and weren’t answering her texts. She’s tied up with Clint at the moment, and she’s worried about you.”

“I don’t need anybody worrying about me. Go back to your company and leave me be.”

“Now see, that’s not how teams work. And sure, maybe we haven’t exactly had our reunion tour yet or anything, but we’re still a team. And that means we’re looking after your stubborn ass whether you like it or not.”

Steve glares at Stark through the corner of his eye and then knocks back his whiskey, setting it down with a hard, glassy thunk.

“How many of those have you had?”

“Not enough.”

“Excuse me, Miss?” Tony says, waving his glass at the bartender. “How many of these has he had.”

“Enough that I can’t believe he hasn’t passed out,” she says, leaning forward to snag Steve’s empty tumbler. “I keep thinking I should cut him off, but I haven’t got reasonable cause.”

“Enough,” Steve growls, dropping off his stool and swinging up his jacket. “Tell Nat I’m fine. Tell Sam I’m sorry. Don’t follow me.” He marches out the door, not even the hint of a weave in his step, and Tony purses his lips, considering.

* * *

“It’s an amazing mark of hubris, isn’t it?”

Steve internally sighs, feeling his shoulders tense, hackles rising. “I thought I said don’t follow me.”

“Who said anything about following? I’m here to look upon what is possibly the biggest eyesore on the face of the planet.” Tony is wearing sunglasses in defiance of the dusky twilight. The sun has already set behind the mountains and the faces of the presidents are lost in deep shadow. In a few minutes, they’ll turn on the floodlights, but until then, the forefathers are more monster than myth.

“You must’ve missed the Corn Palace, then.”

“The what now?”

“Never mind. Fuck off, Tony,” Steve says, his mouth twisting in a sneer. He turns back to Mt. Rushmore and starts walking, bowing his head against the autumn chill. The creeping fingers of wind cut through his jacket, his flesh, and he hates how the clutches of the ice have never really left him. The quick clip of expensive shoes on pavement follows him down the walking trail.

“Normally I would. Really. I would totally respect your wishes. But you see our lovely Ms. Romanov has made it very clear that if I go back to New York without you in tow, she will happily remove my testicles with a rusty knife.“

Steve doesn’t quite know what to say to that, so he turns toward the parking lot and his motorcycle. He hasn’t got a place to stay the night yet, but the Great Plains have been littered with cheap, shady motels and he doesn’t think it’ll take long to find something acceptable.

Tony follows in silence, and Steve can faintly hear the electronic clicking of a smart phone in use. He closes his eyes, feels the bone-deep weariness that comes with too little hope spent on too much work, and isn’t sure if he’s grateful for the company or ready to fight it tooth and nail to get his privacy back. After a moment, Tony’s steps quicken, and the phone is thrust under his nose.

Nat’s photo hovers over a line of text. _Don’t be a jerk about this, Rogers. Humor me._

Steve pushes Tony’s hand away and keeps walking. He’s astride his motorcycle before the billionaire speaks up. “You could make this a little easier and tell me where you’re heading,” the he says, dropping his sunglasses low so he can look over the plastic rims.

The metal is cold under Steve, the leather of the seat squeaking as he shifts his weight. “Dunnow,” he says finally, fingers tracing the line of the brake lever. “Don’t really have a plan.”

“Oh,” Tony says, pulling the sunglasses off completely. “Then may I make a suggestion?”

Steve fixes him with a suspicious glare. “Why do I get the feeling it’s not a suggestion?”

“Well it’s not like I can make you go anywhere you don’t want to. You’ve got sixty pounds and six inches on me, not to mention the whole super soldier thing. But have you ever been to Deadwood?”

“No. That was whole reason I came up this way. After…”

Tony lets the silence sit a little awkwardly, waiting to see if Steve will say more, but there’s only the sound of the wind and the other tourists around them. Finally he shifts his weight, smiles, and says, “Deadwood it is. Follow me, Cap, and I’ll lead you to a good time.”

Steve grimaces, but watches as Tony climbs into a brilliant red sports car. Tourists are snapping his photo as he passes. So much for a quiet trip. But when the engine revs, Steve finds himself turning his own keys, following the flashy car down the winding way.

* * *

“Ugh. I’m allergic to nature.”

Steve doesn’t answer, just continues climbing, his feet steady on the gravelly shale of the path. Around them, birdsong echoes along the sheer rock faces only to be swallowed by the stunted, twisted trees. The clear blue sky is electric through the gaps in the trees, and Tony is feeling lightheaded from the altitude, but he’s not about to tell Cap that.

For another hour, there’s nothing between them. With all his wheezing, Tony can’t really keep up a conversation, and Cap has barely spoken more than five words at a time since they started traveling together in South Dakota.

He stops abruptly, and Tony runs into his solid back, eyes too intent on his own wavering feet. Steve is looking out over a sudden break in the trees, into a deep ravine. A ribbon of silver water runs along the bottom, so distant that it seems a mere thread in the shadow of the rocks. He stares a long time, chest barely moving, eyes barely blinking, and Tony’s not quite sure what to say.

A few more breaths and Cap walks closer, feet six inches from the drop-off. Abruptly he sits, knees curling to his chest, arms wrapping around them. His head bows, and its frankly a wonder that such a large man can make himself so compact. Tony, after a moment’s hesitation, sits next to him, crosses his legs, and looks out over the trees and rocks below them.

Around them, the birdsong ebbs and flows, swelling until it almost seems to consume Tony, filling his ears and eyes. He swallows once, unsure of what he’s feeling. He’s never been one to stop and marvel at nature, not when there are machines to be built and futures to be created, but now, with the wide Montana sky yawning through the break in the trees, he thinks maybe he gets it. Just a little.

“The Alps were different,” Steve says suddenly, voice like gravel. “Sharper. Colder. Meaner.”

Tony glances sideways, and though he can see that Steve isn’t crying, he thinks it might be a close thing. The super soldier shudders and raises his head, looking down into the depths of stone and water again. “He fell in a place like this. I didn’t catch him.”

Around them, the birds hush, as though sensing the gravity of the words passing Steve’s lips. Tony grimaces, because he’s bad at this. But for Steve, he’ll try. “Yinsen died in stone. He…they shot him in the caves. I couldn’t save him.”

Steve glances sidelong at him, but then nods and looks back out at the endless mountains. After a moment, Tony lifts a hand and tentatively sets it against Steve’s shoulder, squeezing tightly. The super soldier says nothing, but he raises his own hand to cover Tony’s, and for the moment it seems enough.

* * *

 

 

2.

“That was awesome.” Tony says, climbing back out of the Faraday Cage while the museum staff snap a few pictures. The Tesla coil is still humming behind him, as though it might snap off again at any moment, and Steve is eyeing it suspiciously.

“It’s like you enjoy endangering your life,” he says, grimacing and turning away to study the grinning staff. They’d been all to happy too make a special early demonstration for the one and only Tony Stark, and had fired it up almost the exact moment the request had left Tony’s lips.

“You’re one to talk, Mr. I-jump-out-of-planes-and-buildings-without-parachutes,” Tony replies, running his hands over the metal as though he’s considering just hauling it up and taking it with them.

Steve grimaces sourly and turns away. Tony can still feel his hair standing on end, and he imagines he looks rather like a mad scientist, what with the way he can’t stop grinning. Maybe a Tesla coil would be a good investment for the workshop. Just for effect.

“Sure you don’t want to hop in the cage? Let them shoot lightning at you?” He asks, trotting to catch up with Steve’s long-legged stride.

“If I wanted that, I’d ask Thor.”

Tony grins even wider, teeth flashing, and motions through to the exhibits. Steve has been more talkative since Montana, though mostly he limits himself to one or two sentences. The biggest difference, Tony thinks, is that they’re on the coast again. The moment the ocean had come in view, Steve’s shoulders had immediately dropped, as though something was uncoiling from his spine. 

They’re still traveling in separate vehicles, for all that Tony bitches about the energy inefficiency of it, but Steve’s not about to give up his motorcycle, so they trail over interstates and bridges at a leisurely pace in their strange little two vehicle caravan. There is apparently no plan to this little Jack Kerouac style road trip, but Tony feels strangely freed by it, even in spite of Pepper’s increasingly irritated emails.

They step into a hall that leads to an exact replica of the doomed radio room from the Titanic, SOS beeping out on the speakers before the informative voiceover cuts in.

“This was the best decision I’ve ever made,” Tony declares, running his hand over the telegraph equipment. “I should buy this place.”

“Well, it’s better than Deadwood,” Steve grumps, watching as dials spin back and forth at random.

“Not my fault you’re a terrible gambler.”

Steve fixes him with an annoyed stare and then falls silent, shifting awkwardly. They both stare at this replica of a doomed ship, and Tony suddenly realizes that he’s standing next to someone who also had a clandestine accident in the Atlantic.

“Come on,” he says hastily, hooking Steve’s arm and pulling. “They’ve got to have some of the crazy electricity toys they were messing with in the 1800s. Those’ll be worth a laugh.”

They trip into another room, Steve throwing token resistance Tony’s way, but he halts altogether when he spots something in the far corner. Tony follows his gaze and feels the pit of his stomach sink. On the table is a little radio, arched design, fixed with little two dials.

Steve steps toward it as if in a dream, fingers reaching out to touch but stopping at the last minute. “We had one of these,” he murmurs, snatching his hand back. “I remember I was 17 and Buck was 18 and we’d just moved in together, and he took it into his head that we needed a radio.”

Tony swallows convulsively, unsure of how to go about this. Again he wonders what made Natasha think this would be a good idea: the most awkward road trip on the planet between the two team members least likely to get along. Especially when one of them is pining over his long-lost friend. Boyfriend. Something.

“He saw the add in the newspaper for this thing. The Little Radio. $8.44. I about boxed his ears when he told me the price. You have to understand that kind of money was just…I could’a got fifty pounds of potatoes, a hundred pounds’a sugar, thirty pounds’a bananas, three pounds’a steak and still had loose change. And he wanted to spend all that on a fuckin’ radio, never mind that we barely had two quarters to our name! But he said, ‘Don’t you worry about it, Stevie. I know what I’m doing.’”

Steve’s grinning a little bit, looking exasperated by even just the memory. He looks the way he looked this morning when Tony declared they were going to the electrical invention museum because it was his turn to pick the destination and there would be no nature in sight, no sirree.

“He went out the next day, and I remember thinking we’re doomed. He’s gonna spend our last quarter on a fucking radio and then we’re gonna get booted out of the apartment we only just moved into. But he comes back that night, lipstick kisses all around his neck and cheeks, the biggest shit-eating grin on his face, and thunks down a radio and another ten dollars to boot.”

“What’d he do?” Tony asks without thinking, engrossed in the adventures of this Bucky Barnes who’d never killed, who’d never become a blacklist, brain-washed assassin.

“That idiot’d went and set himself up a kissing booth at Coney Island, right on the boardwalk, like he damn-well belonged there. Girls were always swooning over Bucky and I guess he just turned that charm up to ten and used it on all the tourists. Course Coney Island hadn’t actually hired him and soon enough park security came around and booted him out on his ass. He was only in business for twenty minutes but the idiot made twenty dollars off’a all those girls. And a few fellas, too, way he told it.”

“He, uh, he never tried again? With the whole kissing booth thing?”

“Well, they banned him for life, but next month, he weaseled his way back in, me in tow. But no, he never did the kissing booth thing again. I…I asked him not to.”

Steve’s face falls a little, and he turns away so that Tony can only see the fan of his lashes over one sharp cheekbone.

“You know we don’t…most people don’t take issue with homosexuality anymore.”

“I’m aware,” Steve says tightly, fists clenching at his sides. Tony watches him a moment longer, studying the tension in his shoulders and the way he looks ready to bolt.

“Tell me more about the thirties,” he says finally, taking two steps so he’s even with Steve. “Tell me more about Bucky before the war.”

Steve looks up with surprise, mouth slack and eyes wide. Then he purses his lips and frowns. “I ain’t…that’s not…”

“I’m not asking for sordid details,” Tony says with a wave of his hand. “I’m asking about your lives. I’m asking about Bucky Barnes, Brooklyn Punk, not Bucky Barnes, War Hero, not Bucky Barnes, Cassanova.”

That look of shock slides across Steve’s face again, but he hides it quickly, straightening. “Alright,” he says after a moment, looking around. “But let’s finish up with the museum first. I’ll…I’ll tell you about him over dinner.”

“Perfect,” Tony says with a smile.

* * *

 

 

3.

“You are a fucking sadist, Rogers.”

“No one’s forcing you to follow me.”

“Uh, Natasha? Testicular removal? Unimaginable pain? I don’t think I have much of a choice.”

“I’ll ask her to leave your manhood intact.”

“I’m not taking my chances. I’m going to follow you until you’re either back in New York or safely sequestered in my new Miami villa.”

“Miami’s acceptable?”

Tony puffs as the trail starts to rise sharply again and doesn’t bother to answer. He likes to think he is in good shape for a man who spent the majority of his youth boozing, smoking, doing drugs, and generally not taking care of himself, but he hasn’t exactly been training his body for endurance marathons. Steve, on the other hand, looks fresh as a daisy, his breath billowing from his pink lips in the drear autumn air.

“Eighteen miles of fresh air and freezing cold. People do this for fun?”

Steve doesn’t reply. He just treks steadily onward, back straight as a steel post, even though he must be carrying close to a hundred pounds in supplies. At least Tony can appreciate the view if nothing else. He shrugs his pack up higher and leans into the slope, wondering how long he can hold out before he has to beg Steve for a rest.

Around them, the wind rumbles through the trees with the first chill of winter, and there’s snow already deep on the higher peaks looming on every horizon. The man at the trail head had said they had good timing. A week later and it would have been closed with the first major snows. Tony’s not so sure he’d call the frigid climate good timing.

For hours they climb and (on Tony’s part) stumble through the trail, not a word passing between them. Tony hasn’t the slightest clue where they are or where they’re going, and even his cell service is spotty at best out in these backwoods. Besides which, Steve the Sadist forced him to hand over his phone at the start of the hike, with a sharp “sit back and appreciate the scenery”. The churning of Tony’s legs against the rock and soil eventually takes him to another place. It’s almost like the zone he falls into when he’s inventing, the place where the world falls away and its just him and the code and schematics. But this time, it’s just him and his muscles and Steve’s distant presence. He nearly startles when Steve stops abruptly, gazing out.

Around them the treeline has fallen sharply away and the sky opens up into wet, opalescent clouds. Tony blinks once, twice, as he realizes they’re standing high on a ridge, and they might as well be the last two men on the planet. Below his feet, the rock falls sharply away, tumbling down into a nearly perfect circle of a lake.

“What time is it?” he asks dumbly, still staring into the steely water. A tiny island rises from the near edge of the lake, dotted with evergreens and looking forlorn. All the deciduous trees have lost their leaves already, tangles of brown bramble against the slopes. But for all that winter draws near, the landscape is still startlingly green in the late afternoon light.

“Time to stop for the night,” replies Steve, shucking his pack onto the stone.

“I thought the guy said no camping on the rim of the lake.”

“Well, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” said Steve with a crook of his lips.

“Why Captain? Is this you breaking the law? It kind of suits you.” Tony drops his own pack, feeling suddenly as light as a feather. He stretches his arms up overhead, reveling in the feeling of his shoulders and ribs lifting up and away. He catches Steve staring and grins, dropping his hands back to his sides. “You owe me for this,” he says, gesturing out at the magnificent lake.

Steve shakes his head slightly and then says, “Oh yes. I definitely owe you for taking you to one of the most magnificent sites in all of the Pacific Northwest.”

“Damn straight.” Tony steps up to the rim, looks down, and is hit with a sense of déjà vu.  He’s thinking on that pass in Montana and the way Steve had collapsed. Steve steps up next to him, face darkening, and it’s clear he’s thinking about too.

“We caught him,” he says abruptly, looking down at the toes of his boots. “In Wisconsin. Holed up in some shitty motel. He let us catch him.”

Tony holds his breath, shifts his weight and hears stone and gravel crunch beneath him. Steve looks out over the lake, eyes as dark as the ruffled water, brow as craggy as the mountains surrounding them.

“He said…he said he doesn’t want to see me. Doesn’t want my help. He told me to fuck off. Pulled a gun on me and threatened to shoot me again. Sam made me leave after that.”

Around them the wind howls abruptly louder, rattling the trees and tugging at their clothes. This is the part where Tony’s supposed to impart some sort of deep life wisdom that makes Steve feel better. He’s more or less the older of them two of them, birth certificates evidence to the contrary, but when he reaches for something to comfort Steve, what comes out is, “That’s shitty.”

Steve’s expression sours, and he scuffs his shoe across the stone. He turns back to the packs, and Tony panics, knowing he’s about an inch from undoing all of the progress they’ve made in the last two weeks of traveling together. Before he can think better of it, he reaches out and wraps his arms around Steve’s chest and shoulders, pressing his cheek to Steve’s broad back.

The super soldier freezes, so still he might as well be stone, not even breathing beneath Tony’s grasp. “Here’s the thing,” Tony says, tightening his fingers in Steve’s jacket until they’re linked across Steve’s chest. “You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped. Take it from someone who watched his dad go from generally unfriendly asshole to raging drunk. You have to let that person realize on their own that they might need help. And then let them ask for help.”

Steve’s still not breathing, his shoulders tense beneath Tony’s grip.

“Bucky, he…he knows you’ll be there. I mean, I’m sure you told him that. I mean, I shouldn’t be putting words in your moth. But…fuck, what I really mean is, either he’ll come around or he won’t. But that’s his decision, and you have to let him make it on his own. I’m not saying he doesn’t need help. He needs a metric ton of help. But he has to take that first step.”

Finally, Steve’s chest expands under Tony’s fists, filling and filling until Tony’s fingers slip apart around the slickness of his jacket. But then one of Steve’s hands is tight over Tony’s, holding on for dear life, and he shudders once before going still. They stand that way for a long time, Steve breathing shallowly and silently, and Tony hoping he’s managed to say the right thing for once. And then Steve’s hand drops away, and Tony takes the hint, stepping back.

Behind them, under the tearing wind the clouds have become scraggly and hints of orange and pink sunset shine out from the opposite side of the lake as the sun makes its last salute of the day. Tony turns and looks out on the shifting colors of the lake to give Steve a moment of privacy.

The super soldier’s heavy boots are almost silent on the gravel and there’s the sound of rustling in the packs. A water bottle appears in Tony’s line of vision. “Sorry,” Steve says softly. “I wasn’t really thinking about normal human pace. You must be exhausted.”

Tony glances sidelong at him and sees the red rim around his eyes, the lighter track along the dust caked on his cheek. He says, “Well, if worse comes to worse, I’ll just make you carry me tomorrow. I hear you can bench 2,000 pounds. My measly little body’ll be nothing in comparison.”

“I am not carrying you,” Steve says, the barest hint of a smile at the edge of his mouth.

The sun finds a break in the clouds and throws golden rays across the lake and mountains. The sudden change in light paints Steve in shades of yellow ochre, makes him look other-worldly, like some Greek god resurrected from legend. Tony swallows convulsively and looks away, cracking the cap on his water bottle.

“What do you want for dinner?” Steve asks finally. “We’ve got beans, protein bars, granola bars, chocolate bars, dried fruit, nuts, and canned bread.”

“Canned…bread?”

Steve shrugs and looks out over the lake, his gaze distant.

“This is what you get up to when I turn my back at the supply store? Canned. Bread.”

“Don’t knock it till you try it. Still better ‘n K-rations.”

“You are the cruelest man, Rogers. How can you expect my delicate constitution to survive this?”

“You’re as delicate as a bull in a China shop,” Steve replies, and pokes Tony’s side. “Drink your water and stretch your legs, or you’ll be regretting it tomorrow.”

Tony grins and bends over, reaching for his toes and grimacing at the burn in his thighs. Steve shuffles off, rooting out food for them and setting up their tiny portable burner. The sun dips below the horizon and the sky shades to indigo and black. He and Steve share beans on canned bread (better than Tony could have possibly imagined) and a pack of trail mix. They then roll out their sleeping bags under the stars, side by side and close enough to share a little bit of heat as the temperature plummets.

Settled in with the burner extinguished and the sky so close it feels like it might just fall on them, Tony feels that same strange sense of peace again, like maybe he’s finally getting it. The Milky Way winks at them through the patchy clouds, flashes of Jupiter and Mars, the faint ghostly glow of the rising moon. Exhaustion tugs his eyelids further and further down and he’s just on the edge of sleep when Steve says, “Hey, Stark?”

He hums softly, tongue too heavy to form words anymore.

“Thanks,” Steve says, his voice drifting away on the wind. Tony feels warmth and satisfaction in the pit of his stomach, and then nods slowly once. 

“No problem,” he slurs softly, just before he drifts off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> For more fanfiction and nerdery, you can find me on [tumblr](http://arukou-arukou.tumblr.com/).


End file.
